


Start (or A Bit of Fluff)

by MajorBenjy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:00:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3871279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorBenjy/pseuds/MajorBenjy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It started as simple as anything else. Although, the exact moment of when it happened was somewhat of a blur to one and a very illogical initiation due to an unforgivable weakness to the other.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Start (or A Bit of Fluff)

It started as simple as anything else. Although, the exact moment of when it happened was somewhat of a blur to one and a very illogical initiation due to an unforgivable weakness to the other. Eventually, the encounter ended with a conclusion they both desired: they considered it a success, so much so that a second meeting occurred, leading to a third, a fourth, and a fifth. There was no intimacy, for they both had the same definition of intimacy. There was no passion, for how could there be passion in the back of a moving vehicle or in a filthy abandoned warehouse? There was only pure lust and an absolute need to let off steam from the everyday. It was purely business and purely unsentimental.

John's day had ended with a bump on his head and a cut on his leg. After a fast chase over rooftops, he promised himself to never run again, never let Sherlock lead him again. Of course, it was a lie. But his tired body was firm against any notion or prospect of catching London's most vile criminals.

 _Let them be, fuck it! -_ his body demanded.

As soon as they arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock abdicated from any type of responsibility and went into hibernation mode. It was understandable, for this latest case was long and intricate, and so the world's only consulting detective climbed into his bed without another word for his much needed slumber.

John, on the other hand, was aching. He needed a hot bath to ease his muscles, he needed food to fulfil his appetite, hot tea to sooth his soul, and not a conversation with a man in the shape of his flatmate's brother.

“The case was a success, I see,” Mycroft uttered as he placed himself elegantly on John's inelegant chair.

“Well, you _saw_. No need to ask me,” said John. He didn't feel like having small talks and he didn't hide it.

Mycroft ignored this and continued in his usual demeanour, “Perhaps, I can interest you in a late dinner. I know your body demands it at the present moment.”

John's stomach and brain entered a violent debate suddenly. Mycroft could probably see such a conflict playing over his expression. John had recently found that he could communicate with Mycroft through his eyes, and at times, such communication would proceed without his consent. This was such time. And so, he stared back at his opponent, forcing his gaze to be as defiant as possible, something he enjoyed doing in this man's presence.

“No, thanks,” he said.

His stomach then betrayed him so unforgivingly—for as soon as the words left his mouth, his stomach chose this precise moment to growl loudly and in such a duration and fashion that made Mycroft's lips quirk in a way that John found most annoying.

Mycroft stood and extended his hand. His stare was still as penetrating as ever; John had no other option but to take that pale, large, soft dignified hand and followed as it anchored him to Mycroft's body and towed him out of the flat, into the familiar black car, and turned out of Baker Street.

John had never been in Mycroft's residence. He had had the notion that Mycroft resided at the Diogenes, or perhaps he couldn't truly reconcile Mycroft Holmes with the prospect of sleep for the older man was both omnipresent and omniscient, John often thought he was anything but human. And although the elder Holmes brother certainly had lodgings at the exclusive club, he also owned a home which fitted John's critical expectation of him. John took the last bite of his dinner before finally acknowledging the décor of the place. The dinning room had French windows that looked out to a well-kept garden outside, which was now hiding behind the night's darkness, hardwood floors, Persian carpet, and paintings that hung over a large fireplace.

 _F_ _or fuck's sakes_ _, how many bloody fireplaces does this place have?_ he thought.

“Five,” answered Mycroft, despite the question being unspoken. “Like many houses of its kind. It's no more of an excess; this house was built long ago and it was common to have so many to warm such a large space.”

“I would very much appreciate, Mr Holmes, if you stop reading my mind once in a while.”

“Quite the contrary to popular belief, _Dr Watson_ , I do not possess such a power. I simply deduce it from your survey of my home. Your mind lingered a fraction of a time longer at the fireplace and your eyes were searching for more of them. A very simple inference, even _you_ can perform the task and come to the same conclusion.”

“Deduce what I'm thinking now,” John said and gave Mycroft a dangerous fixed look.

“Well, there's no need to be so crude, doctor.”

John smirked and patted his belly unconsciously.

“More wine perhaps?” Mycroft asked; it wasn't a question as much as a suggestion. He poured a generous amount into John's glass and then into his own.

John picked up his glass and swirled the liquid within, something he never did but was only doing now to mock the man before him. “You lavishly dined and wined me. You're not very subtle.”

“I do not wish to be subtle.”

“So, you admit you like fucking me?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied before bringing the glass to his lips, eyes still fixed on John for effect, and sipped almost feathery-lightly, lips protruding and showing their softness— _which could also be firm and unyielding if something was to be placed in between them._

John allowed a very short moment to stare and snapped himself out of it with a coarse “I'm too tired to shag anyone tonight.” He gulped down a mouthful like a caveman to Mycroft's gentlemanliness.

“It's ridiculous to return to Baker Street at this late an hour. Perhaps, I can further extend my offer: would a spare bedroom suffice? You shall get a much-needed rest without the interruption in a form of my grumpy brother tomorrow morning.”

“He'll probably sleep for at least three whole days anyway. No need to worry about that.”

Mycroft smiled noncommittally, stood, walked from his end of the table, and draped himself across John's lap. He breathed into the crook of John's neck and ghosted warm, moist air from the depths of his lungs over John's bare and naked throat. His fingertips, so light as though he was barely touching, glided upon the surface of John's skin until it met the collar of his shirt and continued on its path toward the nipple behind the cotton fabric. He breathed in and out John's scent until the hairs on his victim's neck stood. He shifted his weight to feel John's arousal underneath his thighs and grinned mischievously when he felt the groin on which he sat was hard beyond his initial expectation. He drifted his lips across John's jaw line towards his ear, huffed a small breath just enough to tickle, and moved back and stopped just mere centimetres from John's mouth.

He leaned in.

“Are we doing the kissing thing now?” John interrupted as soon as their lips brushed. “I thought you don't—”

John's eyes fell shut as he tasted the other's lips, sweet, wet, firm and true. The sincerity of it surprised him in a way he couldn't quite explain. He had never been kissed like this, and certainly had never entertained the thought of such an act to be committed by Mycroft Holmes. There was tenderness behind it as well as the kind of lust that made him stiffer by the second. Mycroft managed to elicit a low, aching moan from him.

When air seemed near empty, Mycroft pulled away and let his victim draw in more oxygen. He licked unashamedly at the base of John's throat and kissed up the surface of raw red skin towards his cheek; his fingers kneaded and pulled and tugged at the now abused nipple, the shirt rubbed harshly against the hard nub.

Mycroft pressed a firm kiss against John's cheek—once more, the tenderness behind it didn't escape John—before standing up and said, “Come.”

Almost an unforgivable mess and breathing hard through his nostrils and mouth, the good doctor nodded, didn't miss the double meaning in such a suggestion, and followed Mycroft upstairs.

The same kind of treatment followed as soon as the bedroom door closed behind them. Mycroft's lips explored John's body as, one by one, articles of clothing were peeled off.

Soon, John discovered himself in the nude...

_On Mycroft's sheets._

_On_ _Mycroft's_ _bed_.

Thoughts raced through his clouded mind. It felt different to him this time and he couldn't fathom why this was different than the many times before: the many times they shared their bodies with one another. He fixed a stare at the ceiling when Mycroft's tongue became too unbearable, when it began licking its way up and down his inner thigh, and bit his lower lip to control... _everything_.

 _Not yet_.

John had managed to only strip off Mycroft's suit jacket and waistcoat; the trousers were almost impossible, but he triumphed in the end. All that was left was the silk pants and shirt. The buttons were undone, a work of which John was quite proud, for it allowed him to see Mycroft's exquisite torso—the dark copper expanse of hair and pale, freckly skin, a wide navel that lay above those silk pants, albeit the nipples still remained unseen, hiding behind vast hairs and annoying shirt.

Mycroft pumped him achingly slowly. The way those long fingers worked on his skin—it was as though Mycroft was fascinated by the functionality of his cock. Mycroft observed the fluidity of the velvety skin covering and uncovering the red tip. He rubbed his thumb over the wet slit and brushed it downward to the base and back up again.

On the blink of losing his patience, if it had not been lost already, John thrusted up to quicken the pace, an action that was quickly received with a form of rebuke consisting of bites to his flushed neck. This sudden abuse to his body did not cease even when he stopped his wanton display and instead he squirmed on the searing pleasure rising from the pain created by Mycroft's teeth. The wet tongue soothed each hot bite before another exposed terrain was attacked. When that was over, his lips were taken again; he could never prepare himself for Mycroft's kisses—they were sweet, tender, and ever unexpected.

Mycroft soon kissed down his naked torso, stopped to lick in and around his navel, and took his hard cock into his mouth.

A loud moan escaped John's lips. His very body was a threat to himself at this precise moment. His hips arched upward to receive Mycroft's throat as the older man's head bobbed up and down. Mycroft grabbed John's bottom, lifted it, and urged his hips upward and took him deeper. John could almost feel the tip of his cock touching the back of Mycroft's throat. Mycroft stopped and let the anatomy rest in his mouth. He looked up to meet John's gaze. John's hips were still up in the air and he stared back at those piercing eyes, breathing hard and ragged at the sight of Mycroft's mouth full of his cock.

Mycroft released it with a loud pop and licked from the base to tip before engulfing it again. He held it in the same manner as before, testing and mocking John's tolerance.

Madness threatened to overcome John's sanity. The unbearableness was not only of that searing pleasure that was Mycroft's lips, but it was the mere fact that he yearned for more of Mycroft's touch. John was squirming more than ever before and control was rapidly slipping away from him. His fingers twisted the blanket with hopes to persuade that last ounce of control to remain with him. He held back his trembling fingers from raking Mycroft's hair, from grasping the soft dark threads in his hand. Soon, the feeling overwhelmed him and he needed something now. He extended his hand, he needed to touch Mycroft—any part of that man's body would do. The last drop of restraint told him not to give in to these sensations, to these unbearable, fiery desires. This was Mycroft, a cold-hearted man: how could John want tenderness from this frigid being? He retreated again and jerked his hand back, this time however, Mycroft's hand was swifter. He took John's hand and pressed it against his head, encouraging it to do what it wanted to do despite John's inner protests all the while without even opening his eyes nor swaying from his task.

John caressed the soft strands between his fingers, massaging the scalp, the hair, the skin...

There was something quite intimate and amorous in what they were doing.

Mycroft's head was warm and his hair was soft. There was a feeling of comfort in the touch.

Mycroft sped up, his head bobbing up and down John's length at a great, fierce pace. John was on the brink when the movement ceased. His hand urged Mycroft to continue but the head wouldn't budge. He peered down and saw red lips storming towards him. Mycroft's lips settled on his nipple and John screamed as it was being violently sucked and nipped. Mycroft's hand flew to John's cock and tugged the thick, hard rod towards the edge. It was too fast, pleasure emerged from both the upper and lower parts of his body. No longer able to bear it, John released. White, hot semen spurted out of him so obscenely. Mycroft released his nipple from between his teeth and dug himself into John's neck and settled there. He inhaled deeply, hand still on John's cock, milking until the very last drop. John was panting, air was scarcely enough. It was just jerking off, he told himself, and yet it felt strangely intense and at the same time satisfying.

Mycroft moved away from him; his lips were still red from it's work. His eyes stared at John's lips, but he did nothing else. He simply pulled his come-covered hand away from John's flaccid cock and advanced to the bathroom. John lay on the bed, trying hard to collect himself. Minutes passed and John wondered if he should dress and leave. He knew he was too tired to hail a cab and of course a night bus was out of the question, he thought that perhaps he should take up on Mycroft's offer and his spare bedroom. He got up from the bed, however, before he could reach the exit, a soft murmur from the bathroom stopped him. Curiosity prompted him to slowly open the door and peer in.

Mycroft was leaning against the basin. His hand was still slick from John's come, his cock hung out from his pants; he was masturbating and whispering John's name. Sweats formed beads on his temples and bare torso; his dress shirt threatened to fall off his shoulders in his movement. He panted, eyes closed; he was overwhelmed with pleasure as well as frustration.

“I could have given you a hand, y'know,” John interrupted with a sly smirk.

Mycroft quickly turned away and tucked himself back in. He cleared his throat; he was embarrassed. “That won't be necessary,” he said after a moment.

“Right. Do you want me to leave then? Give you some privacy.”

John's tone was that of mockery.

Mycroft didn't give in and bluntly replied: “That would be best.”

The door shut behind him.

Mycroft sighed in relief. He closed his eyes and berated himself. He mumbled curses and swore. It was a display of weakness and it could have been avoided if he had any self-control. However, when it was anything to do with John Watson, he succumbed to his emotions and self-control wasn't an option. The worst possible thing was the fact that the man who was the source of such weakness had seen him in this manner. The notion made him shudder with utter embarrassment and disgust with himself.

 _Fuck. John Watson,_ _why are you doing this to me_ _?_ He asked himself, his eyes shut tight and his fist clenched and he started pounding it against the edge of the basin.

“What am I doing to you?”

Mycroft turned swiftly around and saw John still standing in the middle of the bathroom. The door was certainly shut, Mycroft noted, but John hadn't left.

Furthermore, his words from a moment ago were spoken out loud.

John was naked from head to toe and didn't let such fact deter him from his anger; his fists balled and hung at his sides; hurt was shown in his glimmering eyes.

“Y'don't have to keep humouring me. Just tell me off. Don't have to keep pretending.”

Mycroft felt numbness all over his body and could only produce a barely audible “no” in response.

“You don't want emotional attachments. I know who you are, what you are. Maybe we're starting to know each other too well to keep on doing this. You're my best friend's brother. I realise that... If you hate being with me, then why d'you keep picking me up and doing this to me? Is it because I'm easy? Safe? What is it? If you feel compelled to—what am I doing to you, Mycroft? I'll stop. Just tell me.”

“John...”

“If you want to do this with someone else—”

Mycroft stepped forward, his hand sprang up to John's face and halted before it was able to cup his jaw. He retreated, cast his eyes down, and shook his head. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced; he didn't know what to do nor how to act nor did he know the precise words to say. He uttered another small “no” and let silence hold them both together until he could find a way to explain himself. He could see John's bare flesh at the corner of his eye. It should have been uncomfortable and shameful but it wasn't. John was unashamed to stand stark naked before him and chastise him and question him. His pulse quickened. He sighed and resigned himself to his emotions.

“I've come to a conclusion recently, although I must admit I have had my suspicions quite early on, that I've developed strong feelings for you, one would define such feelings as affections, deep affections, I could not deny any longer that they are indeed that. I know these feelings can never be returned and I am very much unwilling to force you to do so. I have selfishly taken advantage of this unspoken arrangement that we have, allowing myself to enjoy you and be emotionally committed. No, John, I am not humouring you; I am humouring myself. I—”

John's lips were quickly latched onto his and kisses of the deep and penetrating kind were administered onto them. Mycroft closed his eyes but nevertheless tried very hard to finish his speech despite evident difficulties.

“John...” he breathed and only to be shut once again by very insistent lips. “Please, John... Let me finish—”

“Shut up.”

John kissed him again.

“If you would just... allow me to clarify—” Mycroft tried once more.

“I love you, you daft fuck,” John spoke into Mycroft's lips. He was just as surprised as Mycroft by this. He smiled and accepted such an easily-spoken yet slowly-arrived realisation. “Been in love with you since... Fuck knows when.”

“John...”

“Thought that you're only doing this just to get off.”

“No...”

“Because... Christ! I like sex with you. I thought it was just a one-off thing. I thought I was doing us both a favour, with all the everyday-shit that we have to deal with. I didn't know how I felt until... Fuck... Really thought you hated me.”

“How could I possibly hate you?”

“I don't know. Don't know what I was thinking; I can't control myself when I'm near you. Damn...” John pulled Mycroft in, wrapped his arms around the taller body, and spoke into Mycroft's shoulder, “You make me so angry sometimes.”

“I'm sorry,” Mycroft said and realised it was the first real apology he had ever made in years. He smiled and brushed his lips lightly against John's hair.

A soothing stillness of their embrace began to emit the level of comfort and softness that was highly improbable given the state of their condition. John breathed contently and started to trail soft kisses on Mycroft's chest. He then pressed a wet one to Mycroft's neck, cupped the older man's jaw, and tugged him down for a slow-drawn kiss. A sense of urgency began to take shape. He released those lips from his with a loud pop that echoed the whole bathroom and watched with fascination as he slowly smoothed out Mycroft's lower lip with his thumb.

“We still need to take care of that,” he said and motioned towards Mycroft's arousal, which had been pressing and prodding against his stomach for the past few minutes.

“Oh.”

Shame crept into Mycroft's face and he quickly hid it between the crook of John's neck. “This is oddly embarrassing,” he said with a chuckle.

They walked hand in hand back into the bedroom. A quiet and intense stillness settled in once more. They sat together on the edge of the bed, eyes didn't leave one another. John's face was unlike anything Mycroft had ever seen up until that point, for the younger man was smiling and there was no malice behind that smile, nothing but sweetness and merriment; it made John's cheeks plump and round and his lips wide and his mouth curved... Mycroft ran the tip of his forefinger across the ceases of John's smile. His brows knitted together, he couldn't decipher this: John's lips and his mouth and his adorable smile...

_Adorable._

“Yeah?”

Mycroft was snapped out of his reverie. “I beg your pardon?”

“You said 'adorable.' Am I?”

Mycroft avoided John's gaze and looked at John's chest instead—the hairless, soft, milky skin—and pressed his hand upon it, feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed once more. Mycroft, who was a dominating predator just a mere hour ago, was as tame as a house pet and cuddly and docile at the same time—the biting, conniving, deceitful, manipulative man behind the British empire was gone.

John took advantage of this as well as Mycroft's cock and began to pump slowly and firmly.

“No, don't,” Mycroft whispered and rested his forehead on John's, his eyes closed and his breaths uneven. “Please, don't...”

“Lie down.”

John steered and guided Mycroft's limp body. They lay down gently together as their lips became attached once more. John hovered over Mycroft's flushed torso and glided his hand down Mycroft's chest. His hand was back on Mycroft's glistening cock and he rubbed the hot flesh with his spit-wet palm.

Mycroft knew John Watson was no ordinary being and he was often surprised by this mundane-looking yet amazing man. And this was one example—amidst the hazy and languid pleasure, Mycroft's eyes flew open when he felt his shaft being led into a tight, hot passage. John's hole was already prepared and slick. And his eyes didn't leave John's pair when the younger man's body was lowered gently down until they were hip to bottom, attached together like the most perfect fit.

John rode him.

Slowly at first, then the pace quickened.

His cock bobbed up and down and then whirled around like a propeller. It excited Mycroft even further that he could reduce the brave, courageous doctor down to a wanton little whore who was piercing his wet slick anus with his own long thick shaft. John knew the effect this beautiful image had on Mycroft, and he didn't let the knowledge go to waste for he began to slow his movements and tease his nipple with his finger tips. He licked his lips and darted his tongue; sighs of 'ooh's' and 'ah's' escaped his mouth. He rubbed his chest in response to his own ministrations but refrained from touching his own cock. His movements became an almost slow striptease despite being already undressed; John danced up and down Mycroft's length, never actually pull off him altogether. He rubbed himself more thoroughly, expressing his sexual desires through his own touch. He circled his hips and his cock moved with the motion.

Mycroft knew that he had lost his mental faculties and any last drop of self-control. He hastened the upper half of his body upward and latched his lips onto one of John's nipples and sucked so hard that an illicit gasp escaped John. Mycroft rolled the hard nub between his teeth, bit it as a reprimand for such a tease, and lapped until pink turned red. He wanted John closer, he wanted to devour John, he wanted John to become a part of him. He pushed John backed down, hovered over him, and began pumping his cock into him. His speed was erratic, something he wasn't sure he was capable. John felt almost like he was struck by lightning over and over again. His slick hole was holding well against Mycroft's thick rod, they connected in a way he never thought possible, joined together as though it was meant to be joined in this way. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed the room, breaths became heavier and heavier. Mycroft pushed in far into John's body, claiming him as his own, marking his place on John's form. Soon, his balls tightened and his white hot fluid flooded John's welcoming hole, spurting out at great intensity until a guttural moan ended the long-overdue activity. After his breath had even out and he had gathered his wits, he sat up and scooped John's body into his embrace.

“ _Fuck_. I feel like such a goddamn whore,” John's voice was muffled against his skin.

“Are you not?”

John reciprocated with a bite on Mycroft's earlobe. Soft laughter stirred the room. Mycroft pulled out and watched with fascination as his come dripped from the doctor's abused hole and down his inner thighs; the contrast of its milky white colour and John's red, hot buttocks made Mycroft's heart beat faster than before. Silence soon conquered them and their bodies swayed with the flow of blood, sated and full, they fell into a deep sleep in the sweet smell of their sex and in each other's arms.

John woke to a soft tapping sound. His head was laid upon a very strange and warm pillow... it was not until he screwed up his eyes and peered over that he saw he had been sleeping on Mycroft's chest.

With a laptop balanced on his thighs, Mycroft was alternating between typing on his laptop and writing studiously upon a file that lay near the edge of the bed. John looked at the device then at Mycroft's hand.

“I thought you were right-handed,” he said drowsily.

“Indeed, I am. But my right hand is presently occupied; I had to make do.”

He punctuated with a gentle stroke down John's shoulder.

Of course, Mycroft Holmes was ambidextrous. Mycroft Holmes was everything. How could he have thought otherwise? Mycroft could have left him in bed, John thought, he could have gone into his study for this or better yet leave for work altogether. The very notion that Mycroft was still in bed with him was somewhat a wonder, despite all their activities the previous night.

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft turned and met John's gaze. John surged forward and planted a firm kiss on his cheek.

“Good morning,” he whispered, happiness almost to a brim—an evidence in a form of a soft smirk at the corner of his lips—and prided himself a bit when he saw Mycroft had closed his eyes at the tenderness of his kiss.

Mycroft could do nothing else; he smiled and replied a soft “Good morning, John” as his long fingers caressed gingerly at John's nape. “Although, I should clarify,” he added, “it is fourteen minutes past two in the afternoon.”

“Shit, really?”

John slid across Mycroft's bare body and reached for his watch sitting on the nightstand. Once he had confirmed that it was indeed such a time, he tossed the watch back in its place and pressed his forehead against the side of Mycroft's neck, rest his face on Mycroft's clavicle, and closed his eyes.

“Still bloody knackered if y'don't mind,” he said.

“Not at all.”

A soft plant of lips onto John's forehead confirmed the statement.

An attempt at sleep failed, however, for John kept an intense study of Mycroft and got lost in the man's beauty. He had never paid any clear mind nor attention prior to this. How could a man possess so much beauty and intelligence and yet not a single lover in his life? Did Mycroft have a lover that John was unaware of? Was he the only person in Mycroft's life? John experienced a pang of resentment and guilt when he thought about such fact. At the same time, his heart lurched at the sight of freckles trailing down Mycroft's creamy shoulders.

“You're hot, d'you know that?” he asked dreamily.

“My body temperature is normal and the air conditioner is on...”

John snickered, “You need to update your list of sentimental jargons.”

Mycroft's face turned from shades of pink to red as John continued: “Hot in this case means sexy, handsome... _beautiful_.”

“I believe you're still inebriated from last night's wine,” Mycroft suggested, his voice cracked and this prompted John to laugh and to place another kiss to Mycroft's cheek.

“Nope. Always thought you were cute. But I'm stupidly slow at realising how bloody gorgeous you are until last night. You're absolutely deplorable at seducing a bloke by the way.”

Mycroft closed his laptop and rolled on top of John, pinning his body to the bed and cradling the back of his head. “And yet, here you are, Dr Watson.”

John smiled and cupped Mycroft's chin. He rubbed the skin which was roughen already by the older man's five o'clock shadow.

Mycroft closed his eyes, exhaled ever so softly, and let his forehead fall against John's. He could have stayed like that for all eternity, as a matter of fact, he wanted and desired nothing more than that. He whispered John's name and inhaled so deeply the scent and presence of him. “I know it was hard for you to express and put into words those feeling to me last night.”

“Even in the rude way I put it?” John asked to which made Mycroft smile.

“Even so. I confess, John, it's a million times more difficult for me. I assure you, however, it is not impossible. Sherlock had often times suggested that I am incapable of sentimentality. In fact, it is quite false, for I have forbidden myself from such forms of emotions or any type of physical relations. With you, I can't forbid myself. With you, I fail. And I've never been happier to fail... I love you, John. Never have I loved anyone so deeply and most passionately.”

“I know,” John uttered with a sincere, mischievous smile. He brushed his lips lightly on the tip of Mycroft's nose and whispered, “Now, kiss me, you silly toff.”

Mycroft could do nothing else but obeyed. He endeavoured to take John for the eighth, ninth, tenth, and eleventh time. What he couldn't infer, however, was that John had such a thought already and he couldn't quite prepare himself for John's touches and kisses and soft caresses and whispers of love. And he felt that this was not a continuance of what they had—because there in place was everything they didn't have before—but a start of something else entirely that they both didn't anticipate but nevertheless welcomed wholeheartedly.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think. (I appreciate any types of comments -- constructive, critique or otherwise -- so they can help me improve my future writings.) Thanks! :)


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